


The Secrets We Carry

by estelraca



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, M/M, Transgender Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:02:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28104402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/estelraca/pseuds/estelraca
Summary: A case of a missing cat ends up leading to mild injuries, which leads to further secrets revealed.  Watson should have known that Holmes cannot tolerate boredom.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 4
Kudos: 36
Collections: Books of Yule





	The Secrets We Carry

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FleetSparrow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FleetSparrow/gifts).



> This is my first attempt at writing original ACD canon, though I've loved the series since middle school. I hope that you enjoy it! Trans man Sherlock was very fun to write.

_The Secrets We Carry_

This is a personal journal entry of Dr. John Watson, and is not to be released or published to the public in any way, shape, or form, even upon my death. If such is done, know that it was against my will, and the individual in question is to be considered a scoundrel and a thief, deserving of nothing save scorn.

The incident I record involves my good friend Sherlock Holmes, and includes information that I was given in privileged discussion. From the time of Hippocrates to the present day there has been a debate about what privacy a doctor owes his patients. I must say that I agree with those who believe that unless an individual's life is in danger, all information should be considered privileged, not to be divulged with any identifying characteristics to the general medical field let alone the general public, no matter what gender or race the patient is. I know this puts me at odds with some of my colleagues, but I feel it puts my patients' best interests first without damaging the progression of the medical field, and that is, of course, our primary goal.

Events began as they frequently do when my companion is involved. There had been a dearth of bodies in our vicinity for some weeks. The police seemed to have developed a surprising streak of competence and acuity that meant my companion's advice had not been sought on any matters. It made for a quiet period, which I enjoyed immensely, but which my companion was beginning to find stuffy and difficult.

Which meant that when the child came to ask us to find a cat, my companion agreed post-haste.

The child in question was one of Holmes' band of street urchins. He was thin but in good health, though the same could not be said about his spirits. A child of perhaps nine or ten, who had undoubtedly seen a great deal of the horrors that life could hold, he was nonetheless in utter despair over the fate of the cat.

“Y'see, 'e's just a little thing.” The child was sniffling on the couch, his legs kicking idly. “Not e'en two years with me. I saved 'im. Mama cat'd done writ 'im off, left 'im to die, but I saved 'im. He's never gone for more than a day and now it's been _three_.”

“If you can show me the area where you and the cat usually haunt, I will do my best to find him.” Holmes approached the child with the same brisk efficiency and detached compassion with which he handled the mourners we more frequently interviewed. “I cannot promise we will find him, but I will put all my knowledge to good use. Can you tell me anything strange that's happened lately? Anything that might have caused the chap to run or feel uncomfortable?”

I was fairly certain that the cat had either been found by a dog or a carriage wheel, as was unfortunately a frequent fate of the unfortunate mousers, but I held my tongue. If it kept Holmes from haring off on something more dangerous, I wouldn't begrudge the child a bit of hope and a large amount of compassion for what was clearly a devastating loss.

“Well...” The boy chewed on his lip. “'e was comin' home full up on somethin' for the last two days afore he vanished. I was worried, a' firs', but then he puked up a big glob o' meat, and I figured someone was jus' feedin' 'im.”

I endeavored to keep my face from shifting expressions, especially since Holmes was nodding as though this made perfect sense. “Do you know your companion's usual route through the city?”

“Let me show you.” The child scrabbled off the couch and headed for the door.

Holmes followed him, sliding on a hat and grabbing his cane as he did so.

I followed in Holmes' wake. I wasn't terribly certain we were going to have any luck with the cat, but I was finding myself curious about what Holmes intended to do.

“Are you aware, Watson, that both cats and children are forces of chaos who actually follow a fairly ordered routine if left to their own devices?” Holmes seemed more cheerful than he had been in a week.

“I am not sure I quite grasp what you're attempting to say.”

“Cats and children. They are both seen by their caretakers to be difficult to predict, their actions random and seeming driven by strange and untrustworthy impulses. But I found, when I followed a colony of cats for several months, that they are actually _quite_ predictable. The cats follow a schedule and a path. The fact that this schedule and path does not necessarily conform to their owner's expectations is what leads to confusion and dissent.” Holmes smiled. “For a cat to break with their usual schedule and path for a short time—to be an hour or two late, especially if the weather has been bad—is quite understandable. But to break with expectations for days... something has changed.”

“Why are you quite certain it's not that the beast is sick?” I glanced at the gray sky that threatened rain.

“It could be. Or it could have had an accident. Such is common, of course. But then why is Tad unable to locate the body? He is a child of these streets as much as the cat is. If something commonplace had befallen his friend, I imagine that he would not have come to me. He would have managed the situation on his own.” Holmes' smile faded as he studied the boy's slumped shoulders. “I do hope that we are able to provide him with a better answer, though I suppose _an_ answer is better than not knowing.”

I do not think that last would be true for all people, but it is most certainly true for my friend.

We spent some time following the child from place to place as he showed us where he and his cat tended to spend their time. Holmes asked many particular questions about who else was familiar with the cat and where it tended to go when, and we interviewed a series of increasingly confused individuals. The consensus was unmistakable—the cat had been present three days ago, and then vanished.

Except that as we circled around, three days became two.

And again at the next place. And again.

I studied my companion. “You believe that whatever happened to our friend happened in this area. In the space between where he was seen two days ago and where he was seen three.”

“Exactly. Which means...” Holmes began studying the decrepit, squeezed-together houses that surrounded us. “We will have more questions to ask very shortly.”

I followed him, looking where he looked, but I still had no idea why he chose the house that we approached.

A woman answered the door. She was tall and thin, and bruises stood out sharp on the right side of her face, their color the mottled yellow-and-green of several days having passed since the injury. “Can I help you?”

Holmes bowed, removing his hat. “I have some questions about a cat that I believe you feed, miss.”

The woman's pale skin became almost gray. “I certainly don't know what you're talking about.”

“I believe you do.” Holmes gestured to some discolored spots beside the door. “There were bowls here, quite recently. Mismatched but present for an equal amount of time. One of food and one of water, I suspect.”

The woman shook her head. “I don't—”

“There is fur caught in the glass panes, and scratch marks on the door.” Holmes pointed to the evidence. “I can continue, but really, all we want to know is what became of a large black cat.”

The woman attempted to slam the door in Holmes' face. He caught it, holding it open, though he didn't try to enter. “My good lady—”

The child wasn't so easily dissuaded. He slipped between the legs of Holmes and the woman, screaming at an improbable volume for his cat.

And the cat came bounding down from the rafters into the child's arms. The noises that the cat made were small and chirping, drowned out by the eager greetings of the boy.

I glanced between the child and the cat and the woman. Her shoulders were tense, her breathing quick and panting. “You've got the cat, then. Off with you.”

“Why'd y'try t' keep 'im?” The boy's street accent thickened as he scowled at the woman. “'e's not yours. 'e's—”

Holmes sniffed the air. “When did you notice the back window was broken?”

The woman froze.

“I believe I am starting to see the shape of matters.” Holmes kept his voice gentle. “Was he the one who hit you? Were your actions in self defense? That is a very winnable case, you will find. But you will not be able to hide the body for much longer. The flowers and the cool temperature have helped, but soon it will not just be felines that are—”

The woman pulled a knife from under her apron and slashed at Holmes. She was fast; he was faster. He dodged backwards, twisting to grab her wrist. The knife scored a long, shallow cut across Holmes' chest, blood droplets flying as the blade clattered to the floor.

“That was foolish.” Holmes' composure hadn't faltered in the least. “I have not done anything to hurt you. I have no _intention_ of doing anything to hurt you. I will help, if I am able, as will my good friend here. Watson?”

The woman was shaking, sobs beginning to wrack her frame. She made no move to reach the blade again, and I swiftly picked it up, stowing it in my medical bag. I was glad that I had thought to bring it, despite the strangeness of this case. “You seem to be hysterical, my dear. Let me get you something to calm you, and we can discuss what's transpired here.”

“Tad, take your friend and run along.” Holmes addressed the boy. “I'll see to the rest of matters here.”

“Is there a _body_ here?” Tad was holding the cat gently as he watched Holmes with wide eyes. “Was Hades _eating—_ ”

“Run along, and don't tell any wild stories about what might or might not have happened here.” Holmes' voice was firm. “I will make it worth all of your whiles not to be little gossip-mills.”

“Not for anyone but you.” Tad grinned, sidling around the adults in the room and dashing out the door.

The next two hours we spent dealing with the woman and the very ripe body she had stashed in the rafters. I suggested several times that we leave to see to Holmes' injury, but he refused to budge until he had seen to his satisfaction that the woman wouldn't be mistreated in custody.

Only when everything had been arranged to his pleasure did my companion allow me to steer him back to our lodging house.

“Really, Watson, there's nothing to be so worked up about.” Holmes shrugged out of his jacket, seeming unaware that this caused the slash in his vest and shirt to gape open. No fresh blood spilled out, which I took to be a good sign.

“I believe any time there has been blood shed it is something to be worked up about, especially so if the blood belongs to one of us.” I stripped out of my own jacket and rolled up my sleeves, preparing myself to tend to my companion.

“It's just a scratch. There's no need for you to bother yourself with it.” Holmes watched me, his eyes wary in a way I wasn't used to.

Given that I had patched up injuries on his arms and legs prior to this, I was surprised at his reticence. “We've no idea how clean the blade was, and neither of us has seen the injury. Come, Holmes, let me at least examine it and see if stitches or poultices are needed.”

Holmes continued to study me, and I shifted uncomfortably, wondering what it was that necessitated such consideration on his part. Had I acted in a way that he disliked over the course of our strange little investigation? Had I missed something obvious?

Finally Holmes nodded, having reached some conclusion. He moved to the couch, settling down upon it and beginning to unbutton his vest and shirt. “Lock the door.”

I complied. I was used to strange requests from my companion; a desire for intense privacy when forced to be vulnerable for medical reasons was, all things considered, remarkably normal.

Holmes removed his vest, draping it across the edge of the couch. Then he peeled off his white shirt, wincing just slightly as he pulled it away from the wound beneath. He was left sitting in his undershirt, thin red stains trailing down from the injury.

Then he pulled his undershirt off, and I blinked, trying to process what I was seeing.

Holmes began calmly removing the final layer of clothing, wincing again as a few thin trickles of blood began seeping out of the wound once more.

I gave my head a shake, gathering cloths and moving to clean the wound.

Holmes watched me, and after a few seconds his lips twitched up into a smile. “No comment?”

I felt a flush rise up my neck. “I've heard of gynecomastia. I've never encountered it in my career prior to this, but if it doesn't overly concern you—which, from what I have seen, it does not seem to—then I see no reason it should bother me.”

“I should have expected a doctor to arrive at that conclusion first.” Holmes held up his hand, studying his fingers. “You've no other questions?”

“Do I have a right to further questions?” I looked at Holmes' hand, too, studying the way the fingers moved. It took me a few moments, but eventually I began to see what he likely would have seen immediately—the third digit longer than the fourth, the taper to the fingers.

“You are my friend.” Holmes hissed rather like a cat, drawing back as my ministrations irritated the wound. It was rather shallow, all things considered, and would likely not need stitches.

“I am, but even friendship only entitles one to so much information.” Though I _was_ curious, both professionally and personally. There were a great many possibilities that could lead to what I was seeing, though the simplest explanation would also be the most dangerous for Holmes.

“I wonder, sometimes, if your interest is... I will not say _more_ than friendly. I have seen how closely you hold your friends. But perhaps _different_ than friendly.” Holmes was watching me still, a hint of wariness back in his face.

I ducked my head, unable or unwilling to face his scrutiny. Even I wasn't sure which it was. I should have realized that he would notice my interest was not always strictly in the cases we were working or the glorious ways in which his mind worked. There was so much danger inherent in admitting to anything more, though. Even when one was stationed overseas, and there were few options for dalliances with the fairer sex, it could be disastrous to openly admit attraction for another man.

But if Holmes _wasn't_ a man... except that didn't quite feel right, still. Even with my hands resting lightly above tissue that was undeniably _breasts_ , I couldn't imagine Holmes as a woman. “You are very dear to me.”

“As you are to me. I believe I am getting to know your measure, which is why I am trusting you with this secret.” Holmes leaned just a bit closer to me, crowding into my personal space. “If I were to strip naked, Watson, you would find nothing physically that would be out of place on a human female of my age. And yet I am and always have been a man.”

There was a challenge in the last words, as when Holmes asked me to try to follow a basic deduction. I didn't wish to meet this in challenge, though—partly because I would lose a challenge against my friend's intellect, and partly because I could sense that this particular challenge was one he gave out of habit rather than out of glee at sharing knowledge. So instead I wrapped the bandage around his chest, tied it off neatly, and replied merely, “It is good to know these things.”

Holmes seemed thrown off-balance by my words, though he smiled as he leaned back against the couch. “That's all your reaction?”

“Would you prefer something else?” I moved slowly, not wanting to startle my friend, to take the seat next to him.

He looked up at the ceiling, brow furrowing in thought. “I had assumed you would have questions. About my mental status. About what has been done to examine me and search for some... alternative cause for my being the way that I am.”

“You are quite sane. Infuriating at times, and with the curious penchants that all genius seem to develop, but quite sane.” I reached out to set my hand hesitantly against his knee. “If we both accept that you are quite sane, that would only leave physical causes to search for. Given your age and the impressive life you've built for yourself, I trust you have been seen by many doctors. I _know_ you are in good health; it would be impossible for the two of us to live so closely together if you were hiding an illness.”

“I have hid... this from you successfully.” Holmes gestured down at his body.

“That's different. Breasts do not prevent you from running, tracking, inspecting, or tackling people. A long-term illness would interfere with one or several of these pursuits of yours.” It would have been so easy to lean in and kiss him. Perhaps I should have. If this were one of the penny romance stories that are so popular, the revelation that Holmes had the body of a woman would have been all that was needed to see our love to fruition.

In those novels, Holmes would have been passing as male only to right some terrible wrong or keep himself safe from some grievous sin. When I discovered his true nature, he would cease to need the disguise, becoming a woman and bearing me a half-dozen children in the name of a happily ever after.

I could not imagine Holmes being in sole charge of children. I am sure they would survive. They may even thrive. But it would be far better for children to have a moderating force in their lives than to be solely at the mercy of Sherlock Holmes, no matter how impressive their education would be in his shadow.

“You are a good man, Watson.” Holmes placed his hand over mine, squeezing gently. “I could not have found a better companion. I am going to dress properly again, though, and then we can be about more adventure.”

“Have you not had enough adventure for one day?” I shook my head at my companion.

“Never enough. You should have realized that by now.” Sherlock actually smiled at me as he stepped away, towards his own room and the wardrobe he had stocked there.

I spent a few minutes just staring at the closed door, wondering if I had acted properly. I had certainly done what Holmes wished, and I knew even then that I would continue to do so. If Holmes considered himself a man, it was not my place to gainsay him. He knew more about the world than I could hope to; I had to trust him to know his own body and mind, as well.

A part of me worried. I was a doctor; if I were overlooking some malady of mind or body... but I knew that I wasn't. Holmes was better-muscled than the majority of people in our age bracket, and the number of people who could keep up with him intellectually was quite small.

I would keep Holmes' secret.

As he was keeping mine.

And perhaps, one day... I was not sure, then, exactly what it was that I wanted. A kiss; a touch; a promise of a lifetime?

Another day of adventure, truly. Another chance to bask in the radiance that was Holmes' wisdom and peculiar, particular brand of kindness.

He didn't take long to dress, and when he emerged I could see no trace of the girl he must have been called as a child. He smiled at me, holding out a hand. “Shall we?”

Without hesitation I went to him, following him out into the night.

I have said before that I am in awe of Sherlock Holmes. That has not changed in the slightest.

I am also, I think, more than a little in love with him. It is a complicated love, because such things are in our current social and political climate, but at the core it is really quite simple.

I will keep his secrets. He will keep mine.

Together we will uncover the darkness in others' lives, and do what we can to make matters right. Sometimes that is crying what we have found from the nearest rooftop. But sometimes... just sometimes... what is needed is discretion, and a willingness to look beyond normalcy for something more precious. For kindness. For compassion.

For a chance at a better future, however it may look.

That is what we are all reaching for, and that is what I have found in my friend. If one day that friendship becomes something different, well... given my own nature, I am certain I will document the events.

Given the times we live in, said documents will be one more secret I carry.

For Sherlock Holmes, I would carry a thousand secrets to a thousand graves. But really, it is much better to live with said secrets, even if they sometimes seem thick in the air. For so long as we both are living, who knows what wonders tomorrow might show?


End file.
